“Sarah, will you play Barbies with me?”
Sometimes love means playing Barbies with your daughter, even if you’re a man, even if you’d rather chew rocks.
I always wanted a girl. I’m not sure why. It might be because a former girlfriend had a two-year-old daughter who was so adorable I thought, I want one of those.
I got one of those. My wife knew from the moment we decided to make a baby that I had a preference for a girl baby. A preference rooted deeply enough that we were both concerned about how I’d react to a boy baby. My friends all told me, “Most parents have preferences, but don’t worry, when the baby comes you’ll love it so much you won’t care what flavor it is.”
Still. A female character in one of my up-for-grabs novels says, “I never wanted a child because I don’t like games of chance. What if she’s not pretty? What if she has a tail? What if she’s . . . a boy?”
I got the girl I wanted. A pretty one, too. With no tail. I told her that of all the little girls in the world, she’s the only one I ever wanted; that if I could have picked any kid off the kid tree, I’d have pick her. I have a (not very original) theory that a person’s self-esteem is directly proportional to the love his parents showed for him when he was a child. My daughter Sarah has a very high self-esteem.
|
I’d give her another hour. Because I knew the day would come when I wouldn’t be able to buy my way back in.
|
Sometimes love means playing Barbies with your daughter, even if you’re a man, even if you’d rather chew rocks.
My wife bought the dollhouse used. Four rooms, an attic, and a second-floor terrace. I spent the three days before Christmas remodeling it: carpeting, wallpapering, even wiring for electricity. It wasn’t long before Barbies began occupying it. By final count, the population was over thirty. And the accessories! Shoes, hairbrushes, jewelry, more shoes…
“Papa, will you play Barbies with me?”
The older you get, the harder it is on your knees. I’d watch the clock, waiting for an opportunity to say, “That’s enough for today,” but never suggesting I wasn’t having the time of my life. She’d groan in despair and I’d give her another
hour. Because I knew the day would come when I wouldn’t be able to buy my way back in.
◊♦◊
When kids play games they create new worlds, worlds that are easy for them to manipulate. The figures are, to some extent, real. And to some extent they move on their own. It’s much like the fiction writer who claims the characters took over and wrote the story. Crossing the line between the real and the imaginary is easy for children.
It’s hard for adults. We can’t get past the “truth” the figures are plastic, that they don’t really respond to stimulation. That there’s little immediate payback for the effort.
The payback, of course, is quality time spent with your child.
|
Never once did she question the reasonableness of her father playing along. Of her father getting dolls dressed for dinner. Of her father brushing their hair.
|
Sarah and I had good Barbies and bad Barbies, even dastardly evil Barbies that cackled as they flew through the air. There were Barbies with leadership qualities and those who just followed along. Our Barbies had staff meetings (Clean the Barbie house! Introduce more male figures!) and even held elections. Naturally, we matched up boys and girls, conducted weddings, and delivered babies (Sarah would slide an infant figure under a skirt and let it fall out on the “due date”).
Never once did she question the reasonableness of her father playing along. Of her father getting dolls dressed for dinner. Of her father brushing their hair.
My favorite Barbie was a redhead Sarah and I picked out together. She was a “collector Barbie,” meaning you’re supposed to keep her on display, or at least protect her from heavy use. Of course, right away Sarah ripped her clothes off and threw her into the pile. I tried over the years to get her elected president of the Family Barbie Society, but a slick looking blond always won. My round-faced, wild-haired redhead had to satisfy herself with being a mere councilwoman.
“Papa, will you play Barbies with me?”
Sarah is older now, and it’s been a long time since I’ve heard those words. I asked her once if I should pack up the Barbies and accessories and get them out of her way. She looked at me indignantly and said no. I asked if she intended to continue playing Barbies and she said yes, of course. Then I held my breath and asked if maybe she’d ever want to play Barbies with her Papa again.
Sure, she said, why not.
And I sighed with relief. Because she was still a girl, and I could still play with her, and all was still right with the world. For a while, anyway. And who knew? Maybe my favorite redhead would yet win the Iowa caucuses.
But the fact remained that Sarah was no longer asking me, I was asking her. It was no longer for her, it was for me. No, I don’t want to change diapers again, but I would give anything to rewind the calendar to an era when my daughter wore diapers. And climbed onto my back to ride horsey. And begged for just a minute of my time to help make inanimate plastic figures come to life.
Photo: Beatriz Rizzo/Flickr
Like The Good Men Project on Facebook
—
